Close Your Eyes, Count the Sheep
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: All John wanted to do was have a cup of tea and wait out the snowstorm. However, he ends up locked in a walk-in freezer with none other than Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and it's cold. So cold. It couldn't get worse. Except for the little fact that their mobiles have no signal. Except for that.
1. Trapped

**Close Your Eyes, Count the Sheep**

1

There was screaming.

John's footsteps were loud against the silence of the warehouse, but they _were_ broken by the screaming, by Sherlock's footsteps.

More screaming.

John hastened to keep up with his friend, breath puffing into the cold air as he ran. It was cold, too cold. Outside it was colder, but in the warehouse, it was cold. Cold made it difficult to run.

Screaming.

_Too late, too late, too late!_ John's mind screamed at him, over the pounding of their footfalls. Sherlock took a sharp right and John almost nearly missed the turn. He let out a short breath and grasped tighter at his revolver.

Screaming was closer.

They rounded another corner. It was a labyrinth, this warehouse, a good spot for a murder. There was no one around. The weather had closed down namely all of London, so even the employees weren't in. There were no neighbors.

The screaming stopped.

Sherlock darted ahead into a smaller room on the left, where the screaming had been originating from. John followed without a pause, quickly finding the detective leaning over the pale body of a woman. John took a step closer, noting the lack of blood, as Sherlock stood.

"She's dead."

"Blunt force trauma?" John murmured, attempting to catch his breath. It was colder here, not by much, but enough to make him zip his jacket a little more.

"Most likely," Sherlock replied, not sounding at all breathless even if the puffs of condensation forming in the air were a signal to the rapid breathing he was doing. He turned, presumably to dart his way back out into the maze of the warehouse that they had been investigating, when a look passed his eyes. John recognized the look as one designated for only times of crisis and quickly swung around, revolver at the ready.

There was no adversary, unless a closed door had now become their enemy.

John lowered his gun, slightly. "That door wasn't closed a moment ago," he started, but barely had the time to finish before a metallic click was heard. It seemed to radiate throughout the entire room.

Sherlock was immediately at the door, even though John had a sinking feeling that that metallic click, had been the metallic click of a lock.

Sherlock's annoyed exhale of breath was the proof John needed. He sighed and lowered his gun altogether.

"We're locked in," he said, dryly.

"Thank you, John. We now have a firm grasp of the obvious," Sherlock replied smoothly, although he was already halfway across the room.

"Is there another exit?" he replied, carefully walking over to the door and making sure for himself that it was locked. Nonetheless, from the lack of door handle, John was able to hazard a guess that this door only opened from the outside. For some reason, he was mind-numbingly calm about the whole situation. Maybe he was still too focused on getting his breath back so he could yell at Sherlock, even though John hadn't quite worked out if it was his fault or not.

"Of course not. Why would there be two exits?" Sherlock retorted, appearing back around the dividing wall in the room.

John sighed, long and heavily, his breath forming a stream of condensation. It was cold. He was teetering on the borderline of shivering and he had goosebumps, although he might have had those for a long time. The snow falling throughout London wasn't pleasant in these moments, to be sure.

But... he hadn't been _this_ chilly out there, in the warehouse. Hadn't there been some molecule of heat out there? Why was it all of a sudden colder in this little room? Didn't they want to spare it some heat, too-

His mind went blank, just for a half second before he looked at Sherlock.

"We're in a freezer... aren't we?" he breathed, barely able to bring himself to voice the words. If that was the case, they were about to get much colder, much faster. Being a doctor, John knew all about the cold, lost body heat, and hypothermia.

Somehow, he was still remarkably calm about it, although the horror, or maybe panic, was beginning to set in.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, in the tone that spoke of already-discovered-thoughts. "An industrial freezer, one that locks on the outside. It's out of use, at the moment, or remarkably so, if you'll notice the lack of food products being stored here-"

"We're locked inside of a bloody freezer, Sherlock!" Oh, _there_ was the correct emotional response. John's mind must have been a little behind right now, still processing the chase and the murder and the imminent danger that they were both in. "_How_ are you so calm about this?"

"Yelling will only consume more oxygen, which, in this case, is much more precious than usual."

John only gave a little exasperated noise, rummaging in his pocket for his mobile. "I'll just call Lestrade and tell him where we are..." His voice trailed off upon producing his phone, and his eyes catching the _No signal_ flashing across his screen.

"It's a bad location," Sherlock said shortly, as John kept looking at the screen of his phone. Just... There'd be reception, in a bit, he just needed to find a place of service... "The weather has already knocked out power supplies, not to mention that we're in the middle of virtually nowhere..." Sherlock's analysis continued, although his voice was less quick-deducing consulting detective than normal. It was more of a tone that spoke of something obvious, something obvious but definitely not good for them.

John looked at him. "What do you propose we do, then, Sherlock? Sit here and wait for someone to magically figure out where we are?" He was shivering now, although whether it was from fear or the cold, it was hard to tell. Maybe it was from both.

"Wait and see if we get reception."

Sherlock's voice sounded like a question and John, who had glanced back at the door in speculation, snapped his eyes back to the detective. "W-Wait? You want us to _wait_? In a negative seventeen degree freezer?" As he said the temperature, it sounded too cold, even for their situation.

"I told you," Sherlock retorted, "that this freezer isn't used regularly. There hasn't been frozen products in it in at least two days, and the temperature has been raised. Likely that they-"

John interrupted. "What's the temperature?"

Sherlock paused. "Around negative four." John's breath left him, again, in a rush, but Sherlock blundered on. "The temperature outside today is solidly zero, or negative one. You didn't notice the temperature drop when we walked in because there's not that much of a difference!"

"It's cold, Sherlock! It's still cold," he finished bluntly, cutting off Sherlock's tangent that had almost sounded grateful. Sure, negative four was much, _much _better than negative seventeen, but negative four was fourteen degrees too cold to be _living _in. Not that ten degrees was comfortable, either, but it was manageable...

John pulled the zip up on his jacket quickly, as far as it could go. It was best to retain as much body heat as he could, then. He was thankful that he had gloves on- he had the snowstorm to thank for that, because usually he didn't remember to wear them.

"Button up your coat. Make sure your scarf is tight around your neck," he stated to Sherlock. As usual, Sherlock payed him no mind. He was wandering around the small room, mobile held aloft. Looking for a signal. "Fine, don't listen..." John muttered, shivering as he moved forward to inspect the door.

It may have been unrealistic, but John had imagined himself toughing out this wintery day with a nice hot cup of tea and the Daily Mail. Of course, by now, John should have known that, despite his best thoughts, he would always end up in some life or death situation when his best friend was Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**-17 Celsius = 1.4 Farenheit  
-4 Celsius = 24.8 Farenheit  
0 Celsius = 32 Farenheit  
- 1 Celsius = 30.2 Farenheit  
10 Celsius = 50 Farenheit [Referencing John's "negative four was fourteen degrees too cold]**

**My dear Sherlockians, another multi-chapter for you! Well, this one can't go on for too long, for obvious reasons, but, you know. I originally got the stuck-in-a-freezer idea from _Castle_, although I'm sure countless telly/book/movie things have done it, too. But, I practically flipped tables in excitement when I found out the two MCs on _Castle_ were going to have to go through it [I didn't want them to die, mind you, just bond] so I thought, why not?**

**Hopefully you guys like the idea as much as I. John _thaws_ [I'm so punny? x'D] in the next chapter, which doesn't make sense, really, but he stops the whole _Sherlock, I can't believe you just got us locked in a freezer and now we have no way out, what the hell do you expect us to do?! _Because I don't like BAMF!John much. Or angry!John. I'm a good old h/c fan. **

**Thanks for reading! Your feedback is appreciated!**


	2. Symptoms

"Sh-Sherlock, sit down." His teeth were chattering. Oh, _damn it_.

"I don't know why you're just sitting there, John. Movement makes you warmer, you should know that." Sherlock hadn't once looked away from his phone. John knew that the man was looking for a signal, looking for a way to fix their problem, but he couldn't help himself from telling the detective to sit. His pacing was making him nervous.

But Sherlock was right. Movement _would_ help- if John wasn't already so damn cold that he wanted to curl in on himself and never move again.

That had a name, actually. Terminal burrowing. But that didn't _really_ occur until the most severe and final stage of hypothermia, and John's mind was just playing with him. Sometimes, it sucked to be a doctor. Only because he could jump to so many... conclusions.

He shivered again, biting his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering audibly. Sherlock didn't even seem phased. Sherlock, of course, also had the Belstaff coat that was looking remarkably warmer than John had ever seen it.

"You're letting your mind get the better of you, John," Sherlock stated. John glanced up, even though the detective had vanished behind the dividing wall in the room.

"H-How so?" he stuttered in reply, wrapping his arms around himself again.

"Because you're thinking of the different stages of hypothermia. As a doctor, you recognize the symptoms far quicker than most would, or, at least, you _think_ that you do. However, it's probably the case that your mind is jumping to the most austere of circumstances, which you know might not occur for up to an hour." Sherlock walked back around, looking at John. "Besides, you've only just entered the stages of mild hypothermia."

"Moderate," John corrected.

"What?" Sherlock retorted, frowning. "We've not been in here that long; it's not possible to have passed into the moderate stage of hypothermia."

"W-Was shivering before I... got in here," he mumbled. "It's winter, Sherlock... T-There's a snowstorm, and it's bloody c-cold."

"Maybe wear a heavier coat," was the dismissive reply as Sherlock once again returned to his phone.

"I'll try to keep that i-in mind, the next time we d-decide to get t-trapped in a freezer," John replied sarcastically, sighing shakily. The cold tore a fresh path of pain down his throat and he fought back the disgruntled noise that threatened to come with the pain.

"Ah!"

John's head snapped up, looking at Sherlock again. "What? Did you get a signal?"

Sherlock had gone stock-still, only his fingers flying across the keyboard of his phone. John took that as a good sign, untangling his legs to stand. Pins and needles shot up his legs. He kept the gasp quiet, swallowing hard before he carefully worked his way over to Sherlock. He spotted the screen before Sherlock sent the message: _Help GPS coor as fllws_, with numbers following.

"T-Think that he-he'll u-understand?" John stuttered, a violent shiver rocking his frame. Sherlock looked down at him sharply.

"Of course he will. He's not that daft. Unobservant, maybe, but the facts are there." Sherlock looked towards the door. "Nonetheless, it'll take the better part of an hour for him to get here."

John had already figured that when, and if, they managed to get a text out, it would take awhile for someone to find them. It wasn't a particularly good feeling to know that, even if help was coming, it would take that long. It was great to know that help was coming- supposedly- but it wasn't great when he was already in a moderate stage of hypothermia with no way of maintaining his core temperature. His coat was too light and the cold was too... cold.

He shivered again, teeth chattering again. He clamped his jaw shut.

There was suddenly something around his neck and he flinched away, hand twitching for his gun automatically, before he realized it was only Sherlock's scarf. He frowned as he looked back up at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't looking at him directly, only was focused on wrapping his scarf around John's neck.

"W-What are you doing?" John asked, reaching to stop Sherlock. "Y-You need that."

"Stop it," Sherlock hissed, slapping John's hand away. "You're colder than I am."

"W-We both have to conserve h-heat," John argued.

"I'm not that cold," Sherlock replied calmly, stepping away. "You need it more than I do. We have a long wait."

John stared at Sherlock as the detective wandered away, crouching over the corpse inhabiting the freezer with them. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was shivering- he probably was, it was too cold- but Sherlock hadn't bypassed into the stage of stuttering yet. His teeth weren't chattering. John didn't know how the man did it. Sure, if anyone could fend off temperature, it would be Sherlock Holmes, but the power of the mind only went so far. It wasn't even remotely fair- Sherlock was long and lanky and _thin_, and didn't have one _ounce _of body fat to protect him.

... John would buy a good coat after this.

"H-How are you not co-cold?" he murmured quietly, sliding into a sitting position again. He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them close for warmth.

"I never said that I-" Sherlock's voice trailed off abruptly. He raised his head from looking at the body, eyebrows furrowed.

"Sherlock?"

"Uhm, that I wasn't cold," he said after a moment. "It is cold." He shook his head, standing.

"What's wrong?" John questioned quickly, preparing to stand. He was mentally complaining that it wasn't fair that Sherlock wasn't as affected, but part of himself was glad. He didn't want Sherlock to get affected by it. He wanted Sherlock to be fine, for as long as he could.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied in his general flippant way, although there was still confusion in his eyes, a look that John knew he wasn't supposed to see.

"Mental confusion..." John murmured. "Symptom of hypothermia..."

Sherlock paused before nodding curtly. "I am aware."

John wanted to sigh, if the cold air wouldn't stab at his lungs. Instead, he just tightened his grip on his knees and buried his face against them.

This was ridiculous. Of all the people that he could have spent the day with... All the things that he could have spend the day doing...

John glanced up at the sound of fabric rustling in time to watch Sherlock sink into a sitting position on the floor. Likely muscle weakness... John shivered hard again, pressing his face back against his knees. How long could this continue...?

Their lives were in Scotland Yard's hands.

For some reason, (and maybe it was because he lived with Sherlock, who complained about Scotland Yard all the time) John didn't feel entirely reassured.

* * *

**A bit of compassion and the start of obvious hypothermia in Sherlock. Otherwise, not much happening (really, how exciting can it get, really?) but doctor!John and definitelyfightinghypothermi a!Sherlock in the next chapter makes it more interesting. **

**Thanks for the support, guys! I'm glad that you're liking the idea! Your feedback is wonderful, and I appreciate it, as always.**


	3. Cold

3

"S-Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond, didn't open his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John's voice hit a higher octave as panic settled low into his stomach. They had been submerged in silence for some time now, although it wasn't strange for Sherlock to be silent. However, when John was attempting to make sure his flatmate was still alive, he would have liked a response.

He had just unfroze from his knees-drawn-up position, placing a hand against the floor to push himself to his feet. He was still wearing his gloves, but he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, anyway. The one nice thing about hypothermia was that it started out cold, painfully cold, but the body grew numb to the cold after awhile. Ideally, from a medical standpoint, that was bad, really bad. But when experiencing it...

Sherlock's eyes were suddenly locked on John's. John let out an audible breath.

"D-Don't d-do that," John muttered, hugging his knees close again.

"Do w-what?"

John raised his head again. That was the first time that Sherlock had stumbled over his words. The cold was getting to him, visibly.

John took a careful breath. "Do you have a gun?"

Confusion once again flittered across Sherlock's face. "No. You c-can't shoot yours. It'll ricochet."

John shot him a look, one of Sherlock's _obvious_ ones. He pulled out his own gun, emptying the ammo. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he took the ammo in hand, tossing it behind one of the racks in the freezer.

"W-What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. "You're wasting perfectly good-"

"There's the c-chance that hypo v-vics get v-violent. I don't w-want to shoot you in s-such a case," John replied bluntly, sliding his gun across the room and away from themselves.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before continuing John's statement. "Victims m-may also experience p-paradoxical u-undressing, and in the f-final stages, one may attempt to 'hide and die', as is called t-terminal burrowing."

John had paused when Sherlock mentioned paradoxical undressing. Paradoxical undressing contributed to anywhere from twenty to fifty percent of hypothermic deaths, but...

If he could have, he probably would have blushed just then.

"S-Sherlock..." he started, looking back at the detective. "Y-You know-" His thoughts cut off when Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut unnaturally. "Sherlock?" He quickly closed the distance between them, fingers fumbling with his gloves. He finally managed to get one off, pressing his fingers clumsily against Sherlock's neck to check for pulse. It was pounding out of control.

"'m fine," Sherlock muttered, eyes flickering open again as he waved John off. "C-cold hurts m-my eyes."

"Your heart rate's m-manic, Sherlock," John said quietly, pressing his fingers against his own neck to find his place. "T-That's a sign of-"

"Mild," Sherlock mumbled.

"A-Also can be Stage T-three... Y-You're going into s-severe."

It figured, didn't it? It started with John getting colder quicker, but it would end with Sherlock falling asleep first? John fumbled to pull his glove back on, ignoring his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. He wouldn't think of _either_ of them falling asleep. He couldn't handle the mental picture. He took another breath. It shook. He cursed his emotions for trying to get the better of him, making a quick decision afterwards.

Sherlock's eyes flashed open again as John fumbled on the buttons of the Belstaff coat.

"What are y-you doing?" Sherlock muttered, his hand clenching around John's unkindly. "No."

"S-Sharing body h-heat helps," John replied.

"Too c-cold to t-take m-my c-clothes o-off," Sherlock said, his stuttering reaching a crescendo. Whether he'd been that cold all along and managed to hide it from him, or it if had assailed him all at once, John couldn't tell.

"Just... _s-stop it!_" John hissed, as Sherlock continued to fight with him. "D-Don't ar-argue!"

Surprisingly (and maybe it should have been an indication of Sherlock's state), he stopped arguing. Instead, his clumsy fingers took John's place and worked on unbuttoning the buttons. Pleased, only as much as he could be, John unzipped his own jacket. It was probably a testament to their state that he couldn't feel much difference in the level of cold when he'd removed it.

"G-Give me your coat," John muttered. Sherlock obliged and John draped it over his own shoulders, leaning back against the wall. "C-Come here."

A few moments later, they'd gotten settled into a highly awkward but somewhat warmer position. John was leaning back against the wall and Sherlock was against his chest, slumped somewhat due to their height differences. The Belstaff coat was drawn around them both, held closed.

Sherlock was right- it was too cold to remove their clothing entirely, but this would have to do, both stripped down to their button-downs. Those shirts were thin, anyway, so the heat was filtering through. The small amount of heat that they had at all, that was.

Sherlock shivered violently, the dark curls of his hair trembling with the motion. There was frost beginning to settle in his hair. John dislodged one of his hands and brought it through Sherlock's curls, earning a disgruntled noise from the detective.

"Frost..." John murmured in response, pausing a moment before draping his arms over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock was still shivering and John tightened his grip slightly, holding him close. The motion was awkward, but wholly necessary for survival. John might have been worried about what people would say... except there wasn't anyone to see them.

"You're w-warm," Sherlock muttered.

"N-No, I'm really not," John said, his voice bordering on hysterical laughter. "Rather c-cold, actually."

Sherlock only gave a noncommental noise in response. He sounded tired.

"S-stay awake, Sh'lock." He mentally flinched when his words slurred together. Sherlock stirred slightly under his grip, his head turning to look back at him.

"Your l-lips are blue," Sherlock said.

"Shit," John muttered. That meant that he was going to go into Stage Three, severe hypothermia, soon. He ducked his head, resting his forehead against the top of Sherlock's frost-collecting hair to seek warmth. Icicles would be forming soon. "This... isn't good." He didn't realize he had spoken the words out loud until a few seconds after he had said them. He didn't expect a response, but a slight inclination of the detective's head seemed to be an affirmation.

They were silent for a few minutes. John had lost track of time. It really was the least of his worries.

Sherlock moved, then, one of his arms snaking out from under the coat. He grabbed John's jacket, of which had been stretched across his legs, and reached back to drape it over their heads. John, despite the fact that he had been watching every moment, felt the slight rise of insecure panic when darkness obscured his vision. He dreaded the moment where everything went dark. Because it would. They would, inevitably, fall asleep.

But, he shifted his head slightly, feeling the brush of Sherlock's hair against his cheek. He was safe. They were safe. For now.

John fixed the jacket so that it covered both of them, although namely Sherlock's face. John could always find some protection against the back of Sherlock's head for his eyes, nose and mouth. Nonetheless, there was a modicum of warmth that came with the darkness of the jacket over them.

"Thanks..." he murmured, although it was to both of their benefits. John, carefully, unwound Sherlock's scarf from around his neck, unlooping it. He then wrapped it around Sherlock's, winding it back around his own. Now, as long as neither of them made any sudden movement and ended up choking the other one, it should help.

"C-could be d-dangerous..." Sherlock muttered. "B-being t-tied to me..."

"I'm al-ready tied to y-you, Sherlock..." he breathed, absently. "Obviously."

They fell into silence again.

Sherlock's breathing had dropped. Dropped heart rate or respiration meant severe hypothermia. John counted each breath of Sherlock's, tightening his grip around him. He would have liked to check the man's pulse, but that involved removing his gloves, and he didn't think he would get them back on if he even got them off.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, shifting a bit, trying to sit up.

"Mmm?"

There was a moment, a long moment, one that John could only describe as _their_ moment. It was like they had broken away, entirely, from the universe, there was only him and Sherlock, and the stupid cold and the coats and _themselves_...

"It's rather c-cold," Sherlock said, after that moment. John knew full well that wasn't what Sherlock had had on his mind.

"Yeah..." he replied, just barely a breath audible. He didn't trust his voice. He buried his face against Sherlock's hair again, studiously ignoring the stinging suddenly assailing his eyes.

He'd never felt so helpless.

So helpless...

... So hopeless...

* * *

**This chapter made me hopelessly teary-eyed. Because I write too fine-tuned to my characters, that's why. Don't make fun of me, it's just, just... so ****_hopeless_****. ;~; Haha. -Awkward laugh-**

**Just to note: I know nothing about hypothermia except what I can pick up on the 'net. I'm purposefully trying to avoid saying how long they've been in there, because... I don't know how long it would take for this stuff to actually occur. xD So, I don't want to know how fast or slow this stuff occurs; if you know I'm wrong, please just use your imagination. :D**

**Thanks for the support, as usual! Thoughts on the depressing chapter that I actually love? Haha.**


	4. Silence

4

John wrenched his eyes open.

He was being strangled by anxiety. His heart should have been pounding too fast, had his body had the energy to make it pump that fast...

... because, for one moment there, he had thought that he had dozed off.

"Sh'lock," John slurred, trying to clear his throat. Wanted to lick his lips, but that would be a bad idea.

"Mm...?" came the sleepy reply.

"Making s-sure you're s-still awake..." He murmured through numb lips. It was getting... getting...

He sighed shakily into Sherlock's hair. The frost had come back. John didn't have the energy to raise a hand to brush it away. Each breath he was drawing was painful now. He just wanted to sleep.

Sleep... Blissful sleep...

"'m still 'live," Sherlock said, breaking into John's train of thought.

"Good..." John murmured.

Silence descended.

They both knew what was coming. They both knew, didn't they?

"Sherlock..." John started, planning on say something that was meaningful and potent and meant something to their partnership...

... but Sherlock shushed him quietly before he could continue. John looked down at him, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Maybe Sherlock was right. Silence had always worked for them before. Why wouldn't silence work for them now?

The silence lasted for an indefinite amount of time before John found a question worth voicing.

"How long... d-do you th-think it's been...?"

A pause. "S-since?"

"The text..."

"T-text?" Sherlock replied, his voice sounding genuinely confused. Normally, John would have been annoyed at the response. Now, he understood all too well that Sherlock, genuinely, had no idea what he was talking about.

Severe hypothermia led to mental confusion as its best, and, at its worst, amnesia.

"Nothing..." John whispered.

One beat of silence. Two beats of silence. Three beats of silence...

John had lost count of the seconds when Sherlock's body suddenly went limp against John's chest.

"Sherlock?" he forced out, raising his head. "Sherlock, you s-still w-with me?"

There was no panic when he received no response. There was just the steady thrum of something halfway between fear and acceptance as he managed to work his gloves off.

Sherlock's pulse was slow, his respiration matching the pace. He was breathing, but for how long, John couldn't hazard a guess.

He squirmed his way out from their haven of coats and shared scarves, leaning the detective back against the wall. He should have been cold without a jacket, and without Sherlock's body, but John didn't notice the temperature at all. He was comfortable, in a sense. The alarm that should have overtaken him was dull in his mind, only the baser parts of his medical training prompting him to button the coat around Sherlock. Sherlock was cold, John wasn't, so there. He had unwound the scarf in order to move, but he now wrapped it around Sherlock's exposed neck. He clumsily, as the moments ticked by, removed Sherlock's gloves. Sherlock's nails had turned an unhealthy blue, but it didn't spark anything in John's mind. He rubbed Sherlock's hands between his own, trying to generate heat, because... because that's what he was supposed to be doing, right?

Oh, he was tired. So tired. If Sherlock got to sleep, why couldn't John? If Sherlock thought it was fit, it must be... Only a few moments ago, he had been talking to him...

Only the 'few moments' had actually been twenty minutes. John's perception of time was gone. His understanding of the situation had passed. And his drive to stay awake... had fallen asleep.

John's head hit Sherlock's chest when he finally gave into the crushing darkness, his fingers still laced around Sherlock's freezing cold ones.

* * *

**NO ONE FREAK OUT; THE STORY'S NOT OVER YET. You get at least more chapter into John's mind, although, whether it's conscious or unconscious, you will have to find out. **

**Anyway, I'm not neglecting my other stories- okay, yeah, I am. Don't worry. I'll get back to them later.**

**Thanks for your favs/follows/alerts/reviews so far. I hope to see more in the future. :) **


	5. Worry

5

There was a steady thumping in his ears. For a moment, he thought it was a heartbeat, until it gave way to something more more demanding and entirely too shrill. Not a thumping, but a beeping. Steady beeping, grating on his nerves...

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the surge of artificial light. It gave way to shapes nearby- a stand, a chair, a curtain- as he continued blinking. Slowly, slowly, it all made sense: he was in the hospital.

Why, though...? Why? There had to be a good reason...

He raised a hand slowly, blinking at the pulse monitor on his finger. Something had happened... something... A case gone wrong...?

He dropped his hand heavily onto the bed again, scraping his eyes around the room. Where was Sherlock...? If something had gone awry with a case, was Sherlock fine...? He always managed to get into such terrible trouble...

John stiffened, the memories of the past hours, was it?, rushing back all of a sudden. The chase. The murder. The freezer. The hypothermia. The _sleep_...

"Sherlock..." His voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat, ignoring the fresh wave of pain as he sat up. "Sherlock?"

Someone must have been watching him, because no more than had he attempted to sit up, a nurse came bustling in.

"Now, Dr. Watson, you'll need to stay still. Your body's still recovering from what happened." She moved forward, gently pushing him back down.

"Where's Sherlock?" he demanded, ignoring the generalized aches from all over his body. Most likely caused from the excessive shivering that he had done... He felt generally weak, but he was determined. "Sherlock Holmes. Really tall, black, curly hair, pale, and generally uncooperative?"

The nurse gave him a reassuring smile. "Mr. Holmes is fine, doctor. He's currently asleep in the next room."

"When can I see him?" The words hit the air quickly, with much more desperation than John cared to admit. He knew what it probably seemed like to the nurse. He found that, even in the presence of people, he just did not care what they thought about him and Sherlock right now. He just needed to make sure that his flatmate was all right, that everything was fine. He had watched Sherlock pass out with his own two eyes, and he needed visual proof to make him believe that Sherlock was fine.

"When you are both up to it, I'd say," replied the nurse shortly, having picked up a clipboard from the end of the bed. "Can you tell me your full name?"

John frowned, twisting his head around to look towards the door. He just wanted to make sure... "Doctor John Hamish Watson," he said, looking back at the nurse.

"Today's date?"

John paused, thinking back on that. He lost track of time when he didn't have to go into the surgery or when they got tangled up in a winding case. "January seventeenth."

"Can you tell me what happened, exactly?"

He knew that she knew; he also knew that she was working his brain for anything that could be considering a long-term effect of hypothermia. Like confusion or amnesia... "Has Sherlock woken up yet?" he asked abruptly, upon remembering Sherlock's mental state towards the end.

"Doctor Watson," came the stern rebuttal.

Sighing, he scrubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "We were on a case- Sherlock and I help the police- and we heard screaming. We followed the screaming, found the body, got locked in a freezer," he finished dryly. "Has Sherlock woken up?"

"He is still currently unconscious."

John sighed, taking note of the various IVs hooked up to him. It only took him a moment to figure out the cause. "Intravenous warmed fluids?"

The nurse gave an absent nod. "You and Mr. Holmes were in a bad spot."

"Yes... Yes, I'd imagine," he murmured, clenching his hands into fists. They were shaking. He hoped that it was just the after-effects of the tremors, and not something as irritating as his intermittent tremor rearing its head.

Or maybe he was just scared. Because that was a perfectly plausible explanation, until he saw Sherlock with his own eyes.

"I'll check in with you later, Doctor Watson. Try to rest," said the nurse, after a few minutes of generalized tapping on her clipboard. She smiled and hung the board back where it belonged before swishing the curtain open, and then shut, and John was left in near silence once again.

The silence had never been so oppressing, except for maybe in the freezer itself.

John would blame his tired muscles, aching body, and weary mind for falling into an uneasy sleep before ten minutes had even passed.

* * *

Thankfully, it didn't take long, after he had awakened again, for the doctors to discharge him. Although, it technically _was _against medical advice to leave so soon... Not that he was leaving. As soon as he could walk, he had slipped into the room next door, the one with the disposable name plate on the door reading _Holmes, Sherlock_.

He slipped into the room, brushing around the curtain silently. Sherlock was buried under the hospital blankets, looking, although still pale, better than when John had left him. He had the various IVs still hooked into him, something that John was sure Sherlock wouldn't be happy about when he woke up. His eyes were closed, still obviously asleep.

John inched forward quietly, his eyes immediately going to the cardiac monitor. Good. Everything was fine now, in that area. Back to normal...

John sank quietly into the chair next to Sherlock's bed, his eyes flickering from Sherlock's face, to the pulse monitor on his finger, to the IVs hooked up to him.

John sighed quietly, releasing a breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding. He leaned back in the chair, relaxing now that he knew Sherlock was alright. (At least, he seemed alright, and he wouldn't be able to tell anything else until he woke up.) He pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying to chase away the unreasonable exhaustion still following him. Afterwards, he propped his head up on his fist, looking back at Sherlock.

"I'm glad you're okay, Sherlock..." he murmured, watching his friend's unconscious face. "Really glad you're okay..."

* * *

**Well, I could have drawn it out, for suspense, the wait (Let me dub it "The Great Hiatus"!) but, in order to avoid that great hiatus, I've just posted as I normally would. And, of course this chapter's in his conscious mind, do you think I would make them freeze to death? [Oh, well, it would make for an interesting... story. Interesting depressing story.] Anyway, no concious Sherlock in this chapter, and there's still chapters to follow.**

**Thanks for the support!**


	6. Scarf

6

John was awakened by rustling. He blinked his eyes open, frowning. Asleep? He'd been asleep... again? He removed his chin from his hand, looking towards the hospital bed. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, frowning at the IVs attached to him and the pulse monitor still on his finger.

John immediately snapped into action before Sherlock could do any damage to himself, closing his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. "Hey, lay back down, Sherlock," he muttered, carefully pushing Sherlock back into a resting position.

"I don't need to lay down," Sherlock replied curtly, resisting John's pressure to lay back down. "I need to... go home," he finished lamely, propping himself up with the hand that John didn't have.

"Sherlock. Lay down," John repeated, giving Sherlock one of his best doctor looks. Unfortunately, the _doctor look_ didn't work on Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm fine," he replied.

John would have laid into him, demanded that he _lay down for five lousy minutes_, when a nurse walked in.

John was grateful for the nurses around here being so prompt, but now, with John almost holding one of Sherlock's hands (holding his hand _down_) and having his hand on his chest (trying to get him to lay _down_), they would get the wrong idea. They always did.

Now, when he was sure the coast was clear, that the danger had passed, John suddenly _cared_ just what people thought.

He removed his hands and sat back down.

A quick check-up on Sherlock's behalf (not that it went quietly) later, John and Sherlock were left in a silence that was wholly more comfortable than the one from earlier.

"So, uhm... Lestrade got to us," John supplied after a moment of Sherlock's eyes darting between IV and monitor, between buttons and dials and switches.

"Good, old Scotland Yard. Taking their time since they day that they were established," Sherlock replied fluidly, his eyes never leaving the machines. The fact that it looked like Sherlock was about to lunge out of bed and flip every switch or pull out every IV at any second made John nervous.

"Everything all right with you, then? You were awake before I was... Well, since I fell asleep here." He motioned at the chair.

Sherlock's eyes shifted back to him. "I'm fine. I didn't mean to wake you. I was a bit..."

"Disoriented?" John supplied. Sherlock shot him a look, something in between defiance and disgust. John smiled slightly. "After the ordeal we had, some disorientation is to be expected, Sherlock."

"For you, perhaps" Sherlock replied dismissively, sinking back slightly. "These pillows are obnoxiously stiff, John," he added, making a face. "I see absolutely no reason that I have to stay here. I presume that Mycroft will be pulling some strings very soon."

"Mycroft? You think your brother knows?"

"Mycroft is, most unfortunately, my kin. They will have contacted him."

"Oh, right."

Sherlock went back to his critical assessment of the hospital room as John leaned back in the chair. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, however; it was a base need in his mind right now: make sure Sherlock is safe, make sure Sherlock is going to _stay_ safe. John would be fine if Sherlock was fine; he just... knew that.

And that was one of the most irrational things that John had ever had pass his mind.

Nonetheless, he believed it. He didn't know why.

He really was an idiot, wasn't he?

"John," Sherlock started, looking back around towards him.

John met his gaze evenly, meeting the eyes that were unreadable, but yet, saying so much at the same time.

"Yeah?"

Sherlock kept his gaze for a moment longer, seeming to blink at the exact moment where his eyes seemed to form something close to gratitude.

"Where's my scarf?" he finished lethargically, looking back to the machines.

John blinked, not in surprise, but almost... amazement. Trust Sherlock to ask that, of all things...

"I'm not sure," he replied.

Sherlock sighed. "How irritating."

John laughed quietly to himself, propping his head up on his hands again.

* * *

**I know there's so many paths I could have taken with this story, but I'm keeping it calm and cool and collected with that caring combined with the slightest bit of humour tone that it has had. **

**Thanks for reading, as always! :D**


	7. And Everything's Back to Normal

7

"Well, we found you. You," Lestrade nodded to John, "were passed out on Sherlock's chest. Still had his hands in between yours."

"I... don't recall," John replied.

"You also weren't wearing gloves, or a jacket, or a scarf," Lestrade voiced.

John blinked slowly. "I wasn't? I... well, the last I remembered, I was. I remember Sherlock passing out but I don't remember much besides that..."

"Paradoxical undressing," Sherlock stated from the couch. "You should have expected that, John."

"Just because I'm a doctor and know of stuff that can happen, doesn't mean that it won't," John replied dryly, flashing a glance towards the detective.

They had been released from the hospital not an hour ago, and Lestrade had shown up at their flat shortly thereafter. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, seeming to be completely recovered and back to his old self. John didn't feel particularly bad, either, asides from feeling a bit sick. Thankfully, it seemed like enough time had passed between their exposure and their release from the hospital.

"You should have been prepared."

"Be prepared to be locked in an industrial freezer? That's a bit harsh, even for you, Sherlock," Lestrade said, frowning towards the consulting detective.

Sherlock only grunted in reply, curling over onto his side. John rolled his eyes, looking back to Lestrade. "He won't be talking much now. Can I offer you a cuppa?"

"You could, but I would have to decline," Lestrade replied jokingly, smiling. "Wife's expecting me. We're going out to dinner tonight."

A thin "No you're not," trailed from the couch.

John chose to ignore it. "Well, the best of time to you, then."

Lestrade left shortly thereafter. He didn't have a reason to linger; John knew that he had just come to check up on them when he had realized that they had gone home. Plus, he had the dinner date (that may or may not be entirely cancelled).

Sherlock unfolded from his position on the couch, stepping over the coffee table. John glanced up at him as he returned to his chair, reaching for the Daily Mail discarded on the floor.

"So, did you just really not want to talk to him?" he asked, unfolding the paper without looking away.

"What? Oh, him. No. I don't care." There was the slightest noise as Sherlock sank into his armchair.

"You don't have to be so rude. He saved our lives."

"His inability to move faster almost killed us."

"The road's were _closed_, Sherlock. We weren't even supposed to be out," John reminded him, glancing towards the window. The snow had stopped for now. It figured, didn't it?

"Well, we almost caught a murderer." Sherlock's voice was annoyed.

John glanced at him. "It bothers you. We almost _died_, and it bothers you that we missed a murderer."

"Of course it does," Sherlock replied curtly.

John shook his head mockingly, turning back to the newspaper.

It wasn't twenty minutes later when John decided that the Daily Mail had had an off day, by the looks of all of the gossip floating around, and folded the paper up. He caught sight of Sherlock, his fingers pausing on the newspaper.

Somehow, in the middle of John reading the paper, Sherlock had fallen asleep. That was something new, but not totally unexpected, considering their ordeal. However, Sherlock had moved his chair, angling it towards the fire glowing in the fireplace. His head was hanging over the back of the armchair, towards the warmth of the fire. Otherwise, he was completely sprawled out, arms limp, legs stretched out. He looked... peaceful.

John smiled slightly.

He was also going to get an awful neck ache if he stayed like that all night.

Despite that fact, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the sleeping, consulting detective.

He sighed and stood, traipsing back towards Sherlock's room. He did a quick search of Sherlock's closet (which was, surprisingly, experiment free), not finding the one thing he wanted. Grumbling mentally, because Sherlock Holmes would be the one man who didn't have a spare blanket in his closet, he closed the door to Sherlock's room. He doubled back and stepped out into the landing, taking the stairs up to his room. He pulled one of the blankets off of his unmade bed (living with Sherlock Holmes brought out an unhealthy amount of laziness in John if it didn't involve chasing criminals) before turning and heading back down.

He crept back into the living room and proceeded to drape the blanket over Sherlock.

"Whadd'rya doin'?" Sherlock slurred, shifting slightly.

John flinched, almost jumping, at Sherlock's statement. "Sorry, just... go back to sleep," he muttered, letting the blanket fall haphazardly on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock muttered something else, but it was lost in the mumbling of one too tired to properly open his mouth.

John smiled faintly and turned away, flipping off the light.

* * *

**Aaannnd that's all for this story. I hope you guys enjoyed it~ Thank you for the continued support and the favs/follows/reviews. I appreciate it it greatly! Thank you again!**


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